


1812 Overture

by Zymm



Series: Symphony No. 4 in F Minor [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Fourth of July, Modern AU, One-Shot, Symphony - Freeform, musician au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 12:18:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15170612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zymm/pseuds/Zymm
Summary: They’re both on stage, playing one of the most overused pieces of classical music for a crowd of thousands, but honestly, all Feyre and Rhysand want is to spend Fourth of July alone together.





	1812 Overture

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot takes place in the same ‘setting’ as Symphony No. 4 in F Minor, bu doesn’t require any previous knowledge/reading of the fic. 
> 
> This ALSO serves as an apology for my late updates- I’ve been struggling with writer’s block lately and have also been at a music institute the past week myself! So here’s a little snippet to get me back on track.

The opening folk tune silenced the crowd in a heartbeat- all ears straining to pick up on the soulful, labored strains of a Russian melody. The violas and cellos played almost painfully, as if it took everything from them just to place the bows and sing.

And when the woodwinds came in, so quiet it almost blended into everything, Rhysand’s eyes locked onto mine. As if we hadn’t played the 1812 Overture every year, every fourth. Sometimes, it felt like we were doing it all over again, reliving the experience as if it were the first time.

And technically, it was the first time for me in the New York Symphony. I’d played it all my life in various symphonies, but never here.

Never under Rhysand’s baton. 

I know the most famous, beloved parts lie in the march that interrupts throughout, the horn calls that echo into the final strain, where fireworks replace the infamous role of the cannons. But I love the in between, the build up, the folk tunes scattered throughout. 

Rhysand’s face scowls as he cues the vicious cello line that moves us forward, that ignites the strings into a frenzy after the well-known trumpet line. 

Cassian’s horn call is impeccable above the woodwind-string runs, soaring above the crowd. Principal horn, ever the hero.

Azriel and I begin the bassoon and flute duet, falling in sync with one another; we had difficulty learning one another when I’d first came to the symphony, but we now played like we’d known each other our whole lives.

I pass the flute solo onto Mor, the oboist taking over the tune faithfully, then to Lucien, the clarinetist ending the phrase for us. It’s sometimes easy to fall into the routine of it all, to forget how beautiful it is- all of us sharing the music  _ together _ , as one.

Rhysand is smiling above the orchestra, even though the line is sassy and fierce, nothing to grin about. I shake my head lightly at him, and he sends a wink in my direction.

The prick. In a outdoor amphitheater hosting thousands- and somehow making it feel as if it were just him and I.

But I’m principal flute of the New York Symphony, and I won this position with blood, sweat, and tears. Even Rhysand, maestro of the world’s darkest, most ruthless symphony, cannot phase me.

We’re falling into the ending- the horns call to the strings, which answer timidly; the woodwinds begin our line, the quarter notes pushing and pushing-

Screaming trumpets, the fall of our flute line and the violins in sync, building up to the slow, powerful theme that would carry us through the breakneck end.

They told us to be ready for the fireworks at the end, but I still flinch at the loud  _ booms _ as we race towards the finish- at least I’m not the only one. Mor is struggling not to bite down on her reed as she laughs at me.

The horn section must be bells up at this point- it’s deafeningly loud, paired with the fireworks, and I know Cassian is probably internally giggling like a maniac.

What really makes my heart clench isn’t the excitement of it all, or the overwhelming feeling of companionship I felt among my family in the woodwinds- no, it was watching Rhysand on the podium, sweat pouring down his temples, practically bouncing as he cued madly. His teeth gritted, his brows furrowed in deep concentration- beautiful, all of it. All of him.

The crowd goes mad when we finish, drunk off the music and the fireworks and probably the actual alcohol itself, too. Rhysand points out the soloist, beckoning us each to stand individually before the crowd.

When he points to me, he smiles, so pure and happy, that I know he’s probably drunk off it all, too. I smile broadly at the crowd, my adrenaline still peaking, my blood pumping through my veins, and I think maybe I am, too.

With a broad gesture, he calls us to all stand as an orchestra.

And looking among all the musicians, enemies and friends, family and lovers, I can’t keep the stupid grin off my face. The crowd cheers, hollars and whistles- it’s not a normal concert. It’s a people’s concert, first and foremost, and it’s exhilarating to shed the uptight, rigid skin of a normal classical concert.

Rhysand shakes Tamlin’s hand when he goes off the stage- a normal piece of orchestra etiquette, for the maestro to acknowledge the concertmaster, the principal violinist. And for once, I think they’re both too happy to glare at one another with vice-like grips. They’re almost tolerating one another.

We exit the stage, the next event coming on after us.

“Fuck, I sweat through my shirt again.” Cassian said as soon as I found him; he didn’t seem too dismayed, a stupid, loopy grin on his handsome features still. It was abnormally hot this fourth, even in New York- almost ninety-five degrees, roasting us on that stage, not even counting the nervous adrenaline sweats.

“At least it’s not your tux?” I offered, slinging my flute case over my back. At least for this concert, we got to wear normal clothes. I’d opted for a dark jean skirt and a fitted red tank top, tying my hair into a thick braid. 

I know Tamlin would’ve said it made me look too  _ young and whorish  _ to be in the New York Symphony. But that was my calling, wasn’t it? To be the youngest principal flute ever in the symphony. May as well live up to the stereotype.

Besides, Tamlin was a fading part of my history.

Cassian just took off his denim button-down right then and there.

“God, Cass, keep your clothes on.” Mor moaned beside me, shielding her eyes.

“Hey. I’m doing everyone at this damn firework show a favor.” Cassian insisted, running a hand down his sweat-slicked chest with a wiggle of his brows. I snorted- ever the egomaniac.

“The humidity is killing my reeds.” Azriel mumbled, appearing out of the crowd beside us; Mor cackled.

“I burn my used reeds after outdoor concerts.” Mor offered. “They’re useless otherwise.”

“Inferior instruments, right?” Cassian huffed, slinging an arm around my shoulders. A sweaty one. “We don’t need such  _ useless things _ .”

Before Cassian could start yet another argument with Mor over the importance of the french horn, another voice interjected, a hand casually flicking Cassian’s arm off my shoulder.

“I’ve got you all beat, actually.” Rhysand said smoothly, a wicked grin on his face as he took us all in. “You all are sweating like pigs.”

“Well, it’s kinda fucking hot out there. Some fans would’ve been nice.” Cassian snapped, wiping at his face with the shirt he’d taken off. Poor, fragile baby.

“Fans on stage? How improper.” Rhysand said innocently; his arm came to rest around my shoulder, tucking me into his side. I smiled, even if he was boiling to the touch.

“I’m gonna find a beer.” Azriel announced, seeing Rhysand’s body language clearly. Thank god for that- it would’ve taken Cassian years, and Mor would be too stubborn to acknowledge that her presence wasn’t wanted twenty-four-seven.

Cassian trailed after him like a puppy Azriel begrudgingly took care of; Mor raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow in my direction, putting a hand on her hip. In her slinky, blood-red dress, she looked ready to go to a fancy bar, not a Fourth of July celebration.

“You could be a little more discrete next time.” Mor smirked, eyeing Rhysand’s grip on me.

“I have no clue what you mean.” Rhysand said innocently, flashing his long lashes in her direction, making Mor snort in laughter. His hand was calmly tracing patterns into my side, so light and barely-there that I felt hot for a very different sort of reason.

“Post-performance high. Trust me. Been there, done that.” Mor shrugged, slinking off into the crowd in Cassian and Azriel’s wake. 

“You think those three will be safe on their own?” I sighed, looking up at Rhysand. He was just a sweaty as we were, to be expected after controlling a whole symphony orchestra for almost an hour. It shouldn’t of been as attractive as it was.

But damn- it made him shine, caught in the sunset outside, bathed in shades of orange and red. His pupils were large, the violet of his eyes barely to be seen- post performance high, indeed.

“Azriel can babysit for a bit.” Rhysand offered with a dark chuckle, reverberating against my skin as he bent down to nuzzle my neck.

I couldn’t hold back a little whimper when his teeth grazed that spot, just below my ear; he laughed.

“C’mon, darling.” He said gently, a wicked gleam in his eye as he tugged us both through the sea of people backstage.

“They gave you a whole room?” I asked, incredulously. He’d led us into the Maestro’s room, a fancy, backstage area filled with gleaming walls and couches, fresh flowers and lots of foods. And champagne. Lots of champagne.

“I’m the Maestro of the New York Symphony.” Rhysand shrugged. “The Symphony headlined this event, after all.”

“Seems a bit over the top.” I added, raising an eyebrow at the gaudy furniture throughout the room.

“Just like a certain principal flute’s performance tonight. I love watching you play, but you’re a such distraction, darling.” He groaned, throwing his head back in exasperation. I watched a thin line of sweat snake past the thick column of his throat, slipping underneath the navy button-down he was still wearing, for god knows what reason.

“Keeping you on your toes.” I insisted.

“Always.” He threw back. “But honestly, must you lick your lips so often?”

“Says the  _ pianist.”  _

“Says the boyfriend, actually.”

I grinned at that. Rhysand sat opposite me, sprawled back in his chair as if the heat exhaustion had finally sat in. He ran a hand through his inky hair, pushing it off his forehead, then pinned me with a teasing smile.

“Well, at least put it to good use.” He scoffed, a little lower, not losing my eyes in the process. I felt heat pooling in me, mixing with the post-performance jitters  I got so often into a dangerous concoction. 

The Boston Pops Orchestra had went on after us, playing a peppier, show-tune program; it was so loud in the Maestro’s quarters, it could’ve been from a radio.

If I listened closely, I could recognize-

“West Side Story.” Rhysand noted before I could, a grin tugging at his features, softening the dark, lusty look that had crept into his eyes.

“How fitting.” I responded, grinning back at him. His eyes traced up my legs as I walked towards him, shaking his head in amazement.

“A jean skirt.” He scoffed. “Should  _ not  _ be attractive.”

“I’m hurt,” I pouted, stopping midway between us.

“No, no- it shouldn’t be, but it most definitely fucking is.” Rhysand confirmed, nodded swiftly. It was funny when he got like this- a little delirious, a little jittery, his hands shaking slightly. Post-performance high, the crazy grin on his face. 

But he always let me make the first move when he was like this, too scared he’d come on too strong towards me and somehow scare me away.

I loved him, but he was an idiot sometimes, thinking that way.

I straddled his waist, slinking down into his lap. His hands were on me in an instant, tracing up the bare skin of my thighs, revealed even more by the way my skirt pushed up as I sat astride him. 

“I have a million compliments for you,” Rhysand said quickly, his words little more than a gasp- maybe it was the heat, or the music blaring outside, or that post-performance adrenaline, but I found myself short of breath, too.

“So what’s stopping you?” I teased, leaning back away from him, practically resting on his knees now. 

“Time for that  _ later.”  _ He growled, pulling me forward to rest flush against him.

The brass soared outside, the Maria theme repeated around the orchestra, while Rhysand kissed me like it was the first time all over again.

I bit down lightly on his bottom lip, just a little tug and likely a flash of pain, and Rhysand responded with a low growl that had me grinding into his lap, which showed me  _ just  _ how impatient he really was.

“Gods above, I need you to stop that for a few moments or this will be over far too quickly.” Rhysand mumbled against my mouth, his large, strong hands coming to trap my hips against him. But we were both in a frenzy at that point- I felt on fire, alive, and each move of our hips and brush of our lips took all the air from my lungs.

So I didn’t wait for him. I leaned back, taking off my tank top with a bit more struggle than I would’ve liked.

“Black. That’s not very American.” Rhysand said teasingly as he took me in with hungry eyes, biting his lower lip with appreciation.

“Oh? Then I guess I’ll have to take it off.” I shrugged, leaning behind me to fiddle with the clasp of my bra.

The rest was downhill from there; the music raged on from the stage, filtering back into his room, moving us along with frenzied tempos and explosive melodies. Just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore,  that I’d die from it all and the stifling heat around us, multiplied by our moving forms, it went on. 

I laid there against him, catching my breath as his hand traced small circles into the small of my back, a comforting presence as I tried to regain my footing in the world.

“Maybe we should save this stuff for home next time.” I said breathlessly.

Rhysand laughed into my shoulder, sending goosebumps across my skin.

“Perhaps. But where could we possibly get a whole orchestra, playing for us?” He offered.

“It’s the Fourth of July, you prick.” I laughed, running my fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. God, I was dying just sitting in his lap, his body letting off way too much heat- he must be roasting by now.

I moved away from him, even though he complained, a few weak words tumbling from his mouth. I rolled my eyes at him instead, moving to pick up my clothes from the floor, knowing he was watching me the whole time, that lazy, satisfied smirk on his face.

“Feyre,” Rhysand said softly, moving to grab the flutes of champagne he’d left on the table beside him- it was a miracle we hadn’t knocked them off and broken them, actually.

“The Boston Pops are almost done.” I reminded him. “Backstage is about to be packed.”

“Just a few more moments together.” He insisted, holding a flute out to me. I tugged up my jean skirt,  fastening the buttons, as I grabbed it from him.

Rhysand patted his knee, still bare.

I rolled my eyes. “Put on clothes, Rhys. You think I don’t know your tricks by now?”

He grinned toothily, standing up on shaky legs to tug his jeans back on.

Yes, jeans- the Maestro of  the New York Symphony had donned jeans for the casual, fourth celebration, and by god, it was a miracle in itself. It honestly should be a crime to look like that, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. 

He sat back down, his legs wide apart as I sat myself on his knee, placing my legs sideways across his lap. Rhysand all but beamed up at me, pushing a stray lock of wild hair out of my face.

“Happy Fourth, love.” He said gingerly, meeting my flute of champagne with his own, sending a tinkling through the room.

“To many more.” 

  
  
  



End file.
